


Not Quite Sasha

by Stackthedeck



Series: avatar assistants [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Distortion Sasha James, Episode: e026 A Distortion (The Magnus Archives), Gen, Spiral Avatar Sasha James, The Spiral Fear Entity (The Magnus Archives)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28272984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stackthedeck/pseuds/Stackthedeck
Summary: What if there was just enough of Micheal to want revenge on the Magnus Institute for what Gertrude did to him? What if Micheal resented Sasha because Gertrude picked her to be the replacement? What if Sasha's meeting with the Distortion went much worse?
Relationships: Gertrude Robinson & Michael Shelley, Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: avatar assistants [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2053383
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	Not Quite Sasha

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically a rewrite of episode 26 a distortion and I quote a lot from that episode and I also change a lot of what was said in that episode and I cut a lot of the not important parts for the sake of keeping the word count down, the words are still being said, I'm just not copying and pasting them. You don't have to relisten to that episode to understand this fic.

“Are you sure you’re all right to do this now? You can take a few days off to recover if you need.”

“No, it’s fine.” Sasha digs her nails into her palms. “Tim’s getting me a coffee, and I’d rather get this down while it’s still fresh in my mind. Besides, you didn’t give Martin any time off when he had a bad experience.”

The memories of the encounter are already going fuzzy in her mind. How did it end again? If Sasha can just start, the details will come to her, she’s sure of it.

“Martin had to start living in the archives. I mean, I could hardly give him a holiday in the office. Anyway, he wasn’t injured.”

Sasha stares at Jon for a moment. She’s injured? She looks down at her hands, her arms, her body. The stinging is everywhere, but she feels it most in her face. She’s covered in tiny papercuts, or at least that’s what they feel like. How did that happen?

“It’s just a few scratches, John. I’ll be fine. Can we begin?” Sasha taps her fingers on the desk with impatience. She usually keeps her nails short, but she let them grow out so they make a beautiful clicking on the wood.

“Okay. Statement of Sasha James, assistant archivist at the Magnus Institute, London, regarding…”

Regarding? That’s a good question. She doesn’t remember how this all ended, she just ended up here and now she’s giving a statement. “Let’s just call it a series of paranormal sightings.”

Jon nods and pushes the tape recorder towards Sasha. “Statement recorded direct from subject, 2nd of April, 2016.”

“Right. Well, I’m sure you know I was skeptical about how dangerous this Jane Prentiss…” Sasha rambles off her hesitations about Prentiss, but the words just echo out of her mouth. The words come easy, too easy. It’s like she’s hearing herself through Jon’s recorder. It feels wrong and the words ring with untruth, but she’s not sure what part of them is hitting that note.

“...it’s got all sorts of strange little quirks. One of these is the windows. The actual windows in the flats are fine, but the stairwells - they have slightly warped glass, where the windows have those little bubbles.” It’s these words that get Sasha to snap back into herself. The windows seem so wonderful as she remembers them. 

“Looking down on the street below can be a bit strange, as the glass bends the light and distorts whatever’s below it. I never really paid much attention to it until a few days ago, but it’s not a new thing.” Sasha smiles and gets a dreamy look in her eyes as she says this, but her voice doesn’t match it. She speaks of the windows as if they are upsetting and not wonderful. 

“It was the day before yesterday when I first saw it. When I’m heading down the stairs in the morning, I sometimes like to spend a few seconds looking out of the window at the people on the street below. I’ll move my head so that I see them through the warped glass, and they’ll distort like a funhouse mirror…” Sasha rambles on about her windows then pauses for a moment, shaking her head. 

Why is she talking about these windows? She never paid them any mind before, but that was a mistake on her part. They twist the people on the street in such excellent ways. Right, the man in the window.

“Well, on that morning I paused before the window, and noticed one of the warped figures below was… off, slightly. It looked too tall, the limbs and body were very thin and almost wavy, like they didn’t have any structure or bones in them. I couldn’t make out a face, but it was the hands that were the most bizarre.”

Sasha taps her nails on the desk. They do make such a lovely noise. Jon glances at her, then at her hands, then back to her. Sasha freezes, stopping the lovely noise. She stretches her fingers like she’s been writing too long. The stretch goes on and on for ages, but is over with a quick breath.

“They seemed to be stretched and inflated by the distorted light, until they were almost the size of the rest of the torso. The fingers were long and stiff, and seemed to end in sharp points” Sasha looks done at her own hands and they ache in sympathy. How awful it would be to be distorted like that.

Sasha continues her statement, words familiar and alien, nails tapping. The figure she saw in the window, he was in the coffee shop too. But why did that matter? Because he’s the subject of this statement, Sasha realizes all at once. What was his name?

“...So I asked him what he was. He laughed at this, the first sound I’d heard him make, and it sounded… unnatural.” That sound echoes through Sasha’s skull. It was unnatural, like birds chirping in the morning, or a bell ringing on Sunday, or thunder during the rain. Unnatural indeed. “Like he was laughing very quietly, but someone had turned the volume up so I could hear it.

“He said it didn’t matter what he was, that he couldn’t describe it even if he wanted to. What was the phrase he used… ‘How would a melody describe itself when asked?’” Sasha finds herself chuckling at that. That is a rather brilliant point. Jon quirks an eyebrow at her, so Sasha smiles and continues.

“He asked if I recognized him. This put my back up a bit to be honest, and I told him I saw him earlier. He just shook his head and tutted something I couldn’t quite make out. He told me I could call him Michael. I didn’t want to call him Michael; it didn’t seem to fit somehow, and the way he said it made me think that it definitely was not his name. Still, it wasn’t like I had any other name for him.”

Sasha’s stomach rolls as she says the name. Michael doesn’t suit him at all and it hurts to say it. Calling him Michael was like naming a cloud or a patch of seafoam. But Sasha had called him Michael, but it hadn’t hurt till just now.

“He sat there, clearly waiting for me to ask another question - so I did. I asked him what he wanted, and was told that he wanted to help.”

Jon frowns and leans closer to Sasha. “Help? With… what?”

“That’s what I said. Did he want to stop Jane Prentiss? He laughed that weird laugh again and told me that I had no idea what was really going on. This was strange, he said that Ms. Robinson hadn’t told me enough.” Sasha worries her lip, tapping her nails on the desk. That had been so strange at the time, but now it made perfect sense. She just wasn’t sure how.

“Ms. Robinson?” Jon asks. “Does he mean Gertrude?”

The question seems so silly and it makes Sasha angry. How could he not know?

“I don’t know, let’s just get back to it, Jon.” The name tastes wrong in Sasha’s mouth, it hurts to say, but it hurts differently than Micheal. “He didn’t sound like he had any intention of answering me, though, he just seemed like he was amused by my attempts to understand. Then he said he didn’t care if I or my assistants lived or died, but that ‘the flesh-hive was always rash’. He said he wanted to be friends. When he said this he put his hand in mine, and it may have looked like a human hand, but it was heavy. It felt like a… wet leather bag full of heavy stones. Sharp stones.”

Sasha pauses for a moment, the vividness of the memory coming back in waves. “He gripped my hand like he meant to shake it. But it hurt like I’d be cut. Sure enough, I looked down at my hand and I was bleeding.” Sasha looks down at her hands now. There’s no evidence of that wound, no scabs or scars, just the mystery scratches covering all of her. But she can still feel how Micheal’s hand pierced her skin. She wishes there were words to describe that hurt. 

“I pulled my hand away quickly and got up to leave. By this point, I was just about sick of this weird thing that looked like a person but was not a person and talked in riddles. He made no move to stop me as I headed towards the door. As I was about to exit, though, he called after me, and said if I was interested in saving the archives, he would be waiting at Hanwell Cemetery.”

“The archives?” Jon asks.

Sasha digs her nails into her palms at the interruption. She hopes that there would be words to describe the way her nails dig into her hand, but there aren’t. “Yeah, I assumed he meant from Jane Prentiss. I like my job well enough, but I wasn’t going to meet a monster in a cemetery for it. But now that I had meant a real monster, I was less skeptical about Prentiss. Maybe you, Tim, and Martin were included in the archives, so I was worried.”

Jon pauses for a moment. He looks at Sasha as if he’s not sure what he is looking at anymore. “That’s… unsettling,” he says finally.

“It really was. At the time I just tried to ignore it. I went home and I got as much sleep as I could. I don’t know if you noticed how tired I was yesterday, what with Tim’s April Fools’ joke and everything.” Sasha isn’t sure if she wants to smile or frown about that so she does both.

“Don’t remind me.” Jon’s voice has the same cadence it always does when he’s complaining about assistants, but his face has gone pale, and his eyes are turned away from Sasha.

“Well, I was a bit of a mess. I checked the cafe on the way in, and on the way home, I even went down there on my lunch, but ‘Michael’ wasn’t there.” Sasha feels like she’s going to vomit when she says that name. “Part of me wanted to tell you about it immediately, to make a statement, but even if you believed me I knew you’d try and talk me out of going to Hanwell Cemetery, and I had just about made my mind up to go. I didn’t know if what the Distortion had said was a threat or a warning or just a lie, but I decided I couldn’t take the chance.” 

Sasha pauses, tapping her nails on the desk. She had called the creature the Distortion. She doesn’t know where the thought came from, but it feels as natural as opening her mouth and saying it. 

“So I went to the cemetery. The sun was starting to go down when I got there, and the gates of the graveyard were lit with the bright orange of the dying light. It had been raining earlier that day, and the pools of water reflected the vivid colors of the sky. Hanwell is an old cemetery, and past the walls, I could see the weathered old gravestones standing silent. As it turned out, I didn’t have to go inside. The Distortion was waiting for me next to the tall iron gates when I arrived. I caught a glimpse of his reflection in one of the deep pools of rainwater, and shuddered as I saw him again - the warped body and swollen, bony hands.”

Sasha doesn’t shudder now. He was perfect like that. He was better than he was a human, because now he is something better than human, he is powerful. That was the body of someone who wouldn’t be taken advantage of again. Sasha shakes her head. She didn’t think that, but she had like someone had dropped the words into her brain.

“When I arrived, he smiled just a little too wide. In his reflection, I saw a gigantic mouth full of sharp teeth. He said ‘hello Archivist’ but before I could ask him what he meant, he started walking down the road towards a nearby row of houses. The sign on the road said Azalea Close. Most of the buildings were in good repair, but there was one at the end that looked abandoned. It might have been a pub at one point, but now all the windows were boarded with metal sheets, and covered with dirt and graffiti. The door, however, was open and swinging gently. The Distortion went inside, clearly expecting me to follow, so I did.”

“Inside was dark and dusty. I was annoyed with myself that I hadn’t thought to bring a torch, but just enough of the setting sun came through the door for me to see by. It clearly had once been a…” Sasha trails off as the details of the encounter get fuzzier and fuzzier. She had hoped that by the end something would come to her, but it’s hazy like an old tv screen.

She taps her nails on the desk faster and faster. Her nails are so long now and they make such a beautiful noise, but she can’t put a word to it. How would a melody describe itself?

“Sasha?” Jon’s voice is shaky and his face is pale. He’s not looking at her, just looking over her shoulder.

The details snap into place. She can’t remember that building, but she can remember the spiraling Micheal Shelley. “I was just about to ask the Distortion why we were here when I heard it. A low, wet groan coming from the far end of the room, where the light didn’t reach. It sounded like someone in a great deal of pain.

“I walked towards the noise. As I got closer my eyes began to adjust, and I saw the floor was covered in pale, writhing shapes. I had listened to Martin’s statement after you recorded it, so I knew what to expect. But hearing about something doesn’t even come close to seeing it. To smelling it. I expected to see what Martin described - a squirming mass that was once Jane Prentiss - but the figure slumped against the wall looked like it was once a man. The worms wriggled out through the holes in his skin. The ‘flesh-hive’, the Distortion had called it, and the silver things formed clustered knots where his eyes used to be. I couldn’t help it. I gasped.

“It wasn’t a loud sound, and given how sick the whole situation made me feel I think I actually was quite composed. It was loud enough, though. The head snapped around to face me, dislodging a small cascade of twisting shapes. The mouth opened as he tried to scream, but that wasn’t what came out of his mouth. The worms also seemed to have taken notice and began to move towards me at an alarming speed. I backed away, but slipped on a piece of loose wood and fell into the bar.” Sasha remembers that she was scared, terrified even at that moment, but it seems ridiculous in retrospect. What are worms to her now?

“I glanced desperately at the Distortion, but he just smiled. He said ‘you’re so helpless, little Archivist. I also thought she was too, but I see now that’s not true. But you, you’re what I wanted, what I needed her to be.’ I obviously had no idea what that meant.”

Sasha stretches her hands across the desk. She may have been ignorant then, but she knows now. There’s just enough Michael Shelley left to want revenge. Sasha curls her hands into tight fists, a terrible headache hitting her suddenly. But how does she know that?

“I started to try and stomp on the worms as they approached, but there were just too many of them. Staggering to my feet, I felt my hand come to rest on something cold and metal-a door knob. It was attached to a bright yellow door.” Sasha’s head pounds, but she’s determined to give the Archivist a statement. “I don’t remember exactly what the inside of the building looked like, but I know that door shouldn’t have been there.

“I looked at the mass of worms crawling towards me. I went to look at the Distortion, but he was gone. He left me just as Gertrude had left him.”

The Archivist opens his mouth to ask what Sasha is talking about, but the words are pouring out of her, too fast to stop.

“I didn’t have a choice. I threw open the door and ran inside. I must have closed the door fast enough because I didn’t see any worms inside and they didn’t follow me. The door should have led outside or to another decaying part of the building, but-” Sasha groans, another wave of pain hitting her head, her hands pulsing indescribably. The Archivist reaches out to help her, to ask something, but if he does anything, Sasha will do something terrible. She doesn’t want to do that, so she keeps going. “But I saw an endless corridor. It was lit with flickering fluorescent lights, like the ones we have in artifact storage. The carpet was black and I swear it had some awful swirling pattern like a bowling alley, but when I looked closely at it, it was just black. The walls were papered over in a swirling green pattern and I swear they curved just to the left.”

Sasha gulps for air for a moment. The memory is vivid and fuzzy the same way a nightmare is right when one wakes up.

“Standing right in front of me was the Distortion, but unlike the last time I saw him, he looked like he did in the reflections. His body was thin and limp, and when he moved, it shifted, like I was watching him through rippling water. His hands were swollen, with bits of them jutted out at odd angles. He smiled that sharp smile and pressed his hand into my chest. If he so much as twitched, his fingers would rip me to shreds.

“He said, ‘Did Ms. Robinson really not tell you anything, little Archivist?’ And then he laughed that awful sound and it echoed through the whole corridor. ‘Did she think I would die that easy, that I would let you win?’

“I think this was what broke me. I’d had enough of this monster talking nonsense and expecting me to understand. I supposed that I was already too scared of everything else that happened that I just couldn’t be scared of him. I told him that I hardly knew Gertrude and I didn’t know who he was and that I wasn’t the archivist. I think I yelled at him, but I’m not sure.

“He pulled his hand away, thankfully not shredding me. He stopped smiling. I don’t know how, but somehow his face was worse without those pointed teeth. His body began to flicker between the Micheal Shelley I saw outside the door and the Distortion. I’m not sure which one said it, but he whispered ‘run.’

“The Distortion disappeared and I saw the hallway stretching on forever. Then I felt that sharp heavy hand on my shoulder and I sprinted. I’m not sure how long I ran for, it felt like hours or days or maybe even minutes. The spiral walls and floor blended together as I ran and all the while I could hear the Distortions laugh and feel his hand just centimeters away from my back. At some point, papers started flying past me. They cut and scraped at me, but I couldn’t feel any wind that would move them like that. And then-”

Sasha freezes, the words caught in her throat. And then? Everything swirls and twists in her brain. What memories are true and which are deceit? She looks down at her hands. They’re covered in tiny papercuts, so that’s where all those scratches came from. Her nails are so long now, and so are her hands she realizes suddenly.

“And then?” The Archivist asks.

“And then my door spat her out here.” The Distortion stands in front of his door. His form flickers between the young curly haired blonde and the monster in the hallway. “You’re not the archivist, are you Miss James?”

Sasha feels like she’s going to vomit. She can feel the paper cuts all over her skin grow and twist into spirals. Her head spins with colors she’s never seen before. She groans, but the sound is alien to her ears.

Jon stands and steps in between her and the Distortion. “No, she’s not.”

The Distortion tilts his head, the sharp teeth stretching across his face. “I suppose you’re Ms. Robinson’s replacement then?”

“That I am.” Jon takes a step closer to the Distortion and tries to hide the fear in his voice.

Micheal laughs and it sounds unnatural. Like he was laughing very loudly, but someone had turned down the volume so that they could barely hear. The Distortion reaches out his massive hand and pushes Jon to the ground. The knife points of his fingers dig into Jon’s shoulder and two of them are poised over his throat.

Sasha looks on in horror. She has to do something or Jon will die. She turns her head to look at the Distortion but he moves in and out of focus. The whole room shifts like an old tv screen. The only thing that Sasha can make out is a door. The yellow door that the Distortion came from, that wasn’t there before.

“Sasha, run!” Jon’s voice is distant like he’s in another room. “Save yourself!”

“Oh Archivist,” The Distortion cackles, his voice creeping up Sasha’s spine, “she’s already gone. But don’t worry soon you and the whole archive will be too.”

Sasha stands and her legs feel boneless. She stretches her arm out to reach the door, but it’s too long and her fingers are too sharp. She can see how the cuts have spiraled over her skin and she desperately wants a mirror to see the complete transformation. But the idea of it churns her stomach.

She throws open the door and papers spill out. She glances at them and sees the thick cursive scroll of Gertrude Robinson’s written statements. One paper flies into her face, covered in swirls and twists and colors that don’t make sense. It’s a map.

“Micheal!” Sasha shouts the name and she can feel the way the Distortion grimaces at it. Sasha can feel herself grimacing in the same exact way.

Sasha clutches the map in her long fingers and it feels so perfect. She dashes through the door. The Distortion howls with rage and runs after her. Sasha follows the map without looking at it. She knows which way to go because she can feel the map pulse in her hand and her mind and body stopped being distinct from itself long ago. She can feel the Distortion-no he’s not the Distortion anymore-Micheal reaching for the map, but she’s always around the wrong corner. 

Sasha runs and turns and presses through the maze until time has lost its meaning. Until she finds another door. The door is a perfect red and the brass knob fits so perfectly into Sasha’s imperfect hands. She turns the knob.

“Wait!” Micheal cries out. “Sasha please.”

Sasha scowls at this. She is not Sasha anymore than Micheal is Micheal. She is the Distortion, the Spiral. She is not what she is. And Micheal is asking her to wait.

And suddenly she is Micheal. She remembers the woman he cared so lovingly for, the woman who did not see all the work he did. She can see Ms. Robinson’s face when she told him to walk through the door. She can feel the confusion as he wandered these halls. But most of all she can feel the resentment that built with each twist and turn. What kind of boss-no what kind of person would send Micheal to become the Distortion with nothing but a map. 

“She wanted you to become the Archivist,” Micheal says. His form flickers between truth and lie, but which one is which? “You, who worked in artifact storage and not any of the assistants that served her for years. I didn’t want to be the archivist, but I wanted someone different and you’re no different than her. You’ll let me die in these hallways just like her!”

Micheal reaches out a clawed hand to swipe at Sasha, but the red door is already open. Sasha is already falling through. She doesn’t leave the door open long enough to hear Micheal’s screams.

The Distortion stands in the recording room of the Magnus Institute. The tape recorder still whirls on the desk, but neither her nor the Archivist care to notice. She lets all the memories of Micheal and all who have passed through her corridors into her head, lets them make up her new form. The most vivid memory is of Sasha James so that is the form the Distortion will take. 

The Archivist lays on the ground clutching his bloody shoulder. He looks up at Distortion with teary eyes. “Sasha?”

There’s still just enough Micheal left to scream for the Distortion to slit Jon’s throat. Something deeper calls for her to swallow him in her halls and let him wander for eternity, feeding her all the fear he can give. There’s just enough Sasha left in the Distortion’s halls that she doesn’t do either of those things.

“Not quite,” Sasha says, enjoying the lovely discord to her voice, “but if it makes you feel better, you can call me that.”

Jon looks like he’s fighting the urge to hug her or maybe he’s fighting the urge to run. Neither would be good. “Are you-um-are you-alright?”

“No.” Sasha’s not sure if that’s a lie or not. She looks down at her long hands and the spirals moving across her skin. She’s not sure what she is. Maybe she’s not supposed to know. How did Micheal put it? How would a melody describe itself when asked? Something like that.

Jon just stares up at her and Sasha stares back. Something has fractured in their understanding of the universe today and Sasha can’t offer answers, it’s not the kind of creature she is anymore. And Jon’s not ready to find answers, it’s not the kind of creature he is yet.

“Fire extinguishers,” Sasha says.

“What?” Jon’s head swivels around the room, but he can’t seem to fully take his eyes off Sasha.

“For Jane Prentiss.” Sasha shrugs, delighting in the fact that her body doesn’t do it quite like it used to. “Micheal knew a trick to get rid of those worms, so now I know it.”

“I-uh-I-I-I,” Jon stammers, clutching harder at his wounded shoulder. His eyes dart between Sasha and the door although there really isn’t a difference between them.

“The time of ignorance is over, Archivist.” Sasha kneels down next to Jon. She tries to distort her form so that it’s more familiar to him, but Sasha has never been a good liar and it’ll take time to learn the pitfalls of this new self.

“I wish I could do more, Jon.” Sasha reaches out a hand that looks almost normal and lays it on Jon’s shoulder. He winces at the weight of it, but smiles at the gesture anyways.

Jon watches as Sasha’s form flickers between something almost human and not quite monster. She leaves through the red door she came through and like that, it’s gone like it never was there. Jon stands on shaky legs and grabs the recorder from the desk. “Statement ends.”

…

Micheal stands outside the recording room. He has a stack of documents that Ms. Robinson asked for and a cup of tea. Really she prefers coffee, but she’s getting on in years and Micheal likes to think tea is better for her health, even if it's black tea and not herbal. He raises his hand to knock on the door, but pauses with his hand raised inches away. He can hear Ms. Robinson inside, best not to interrupt her recording. But he should listen in, just so he knows when to come in.

“Right. If you’re listening to this, then it is likely that–” Ms. Robinson sighs “-No. Let’s not beat around the bush. If you’re listening to this, it means I’m dead. And you have been chosen to be my replacement as Head Archivist.”

Micheal barely stops himself from gasping. Ms. Robinson is old, he knows that, but he can’t bear the idea of her dying. She’s like the mean grandmother he never had, no she means more than that to him. Micheal doesn’t stop to ask himself if Gertrude feels the same way about him.

“Hopefully, this means you, Sasha,” Ms. Robinson continues.

Micheal frowns at this. Not an angry frown, but it’s certainly close, it’s more like confusion. Sasha’s the girl in artifact storage. Ms. Robinson had talked to her once or twice. Micheal never thought he would become the next archivist, he’s certainly not suited for it, but he thought it’d be one of the other assistants. Or at least that goth guy, Gerard is his name, Micheal thinks. He likes Gerard even if he is kind of scary.

Without thinking, Micheal throws the door open. Gertrude turns around mid-sentence, a look of fear on her face that changes to disappointment when she sees who it is.

“Micheal, how many times have I told you about knocking?” She reaches across the table and clicks the tape recorder off.

“I’m sorry Ms. Robinson, I didn’t interrupt anything important did I?” Micheal tries his best to look innocent, but he did interrupt on purpose. Something about someone from outside the archives taking Ms. Robinson’s place doesn’t sit right with him.

Gertrude looks at him and then at the tape recorder. “No, I suppose it can wait for another time.”

“I got those documents you asked for.” Micheal hands her the papers. “And I also made you a cup of tea.”

Gertrude rolls her eyes, but takes the cup with a smile. “Haven’t I told you I prefer coffee?”

“I’ll remember next time.” Micheal rubs the back of his neck and flashes an awkward smile.

Gertrude nods at him, but her attention is fixed firmly on the documents. “These reports are very thorough, Micheal.”

“Oh thank you, I do try my best.”

Gertrude raises an eyebrow at him. “You know Micheal, I have to travel for some archive research soon, would you like to accompany me?”

“That sounds amazing, Ms. Robinson.” Micheal smiles and he can’t help the feeling of pride in his chest. Maybe Ms. Robinson is finally starting to notice his hard work.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! Leave a comment or kudos if you liked it. I'm always looking to improve so feedback is always appreciated! You can follow me on tumblr at stackthedeck. This is part of my avatar assistants series so tell me what institute employees you'd like to see as avatars. Last time I did desolation!Tim and next I'll be writing web!Martin.


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